


Recollections and Regrets

by Barrowight



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Book, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barrowight/pseuds/Barrowight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Quest is over, the Red Book becomes a part of all the Travellers' lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**1.** _The passage seemed to go on for miles, and always the chill air flowed over them, rising as they went on to a bitter wind._

It was a June morning in 1420 of the Shire Reckoning, and the sunlight, which had been growing steadily with each passing hour, now burst over the treetops and through Frodo’s small study window, illuminating the tiny room with a cheery yellow glow. The sight of it nearly blinded an incautious Sam as he entered, and it took him a while to make out Frodo’s form, bent over his notes on the surprisingly tidy desk.

“Working on your book again, Mr. Frodo?” he said. “What part have you gotten to?”

Frodo started slightly - he’d become a bit jumpy ever since their return home, Sam noted with a touch of sadness - and sat up. “I’ve been making good headway. Right now we’re nearly into Shelob’s tunnels.”

Sam rubbed his knee absently, remembering how exhausting that stage of their journey had been. “I can see it as clear as yesterday, that’s for sure.”

“Well, that’s good, because I can barely recall anything.” Frodo stretched and glanced down at his scribblings. “My sight grew darker the further we went, and that’s no good to put in a book.” He shook his head as if clearing out old cobwebs. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any to ask what you remember.”

Sam looked outside. There was still time before he had to cook luncheon. “All right then, sir, but you have to promise me you’ll eat all the food I give you for the rest of the day. Your shirt is so loose now it hardly stays put on your skin.”

“I promise,” Frodo sighed. He lifted his quill. “Start at the top of the Stairs, then. That’s where my notes leave off.”

Closing his eyes, Sam willed himself back atop the Mountains of Shadow, tired and filthy. The memories drifting uneasily in his mind rose to the surface. “We’d just climbed the Winding Stair, and we were resting a bit afore the last lap. It was, I think, in this little space, just between two big rocks.”

“Yes, and I’d caught sight of the Orc-tower on the pass. You got rather angry. ‘I don’t like the look of that!’ you said, and then you rattled on to Gollum for a while.”

“Sounds familiar,” Sam said, laughing. “Anyway, we were eating some of Faramir’s food and the Elven-bread, and - and I was thinking it was surely the last meal we would ever take afore getting into Mordor.” They both grew solemn at the portentous name, though its danger had long since passed. “We talked a bit, too. About adventures and the old stories and those things. And I said, ‘I wonder if we’ll ever be in a story, and if people will ever read our tale out loud by the fireside,’ or something like that. Much more roundabout, I don’t doubt. And it made you laugh, and we both felt merry there for a while.

“Somehow we ended up talking about old Gollum. He’d gone off while we were talking, and the both of us were wary. You thought he wouldn’t go off fetching Orcs after all the climb, but I wasn’t so sure. And, well, it seems now he went to have a chat with dear little Shelob. Making sure the job got done right, or some such.” Sam stopped. “That’s not quite right, though. I saw him pawing at you while you slept, or so I thought it at the time, and - and I gave him harsh words. He mightn’t have been trying to throttle you, at least not right then. Maybe he was thinking of before.”

“Before? You mean when he lived by the Anduin?”

“Just so, sir. He saw that part of him - Slinker, as I say - in you. And he might’ve even turned over that new leaf, if it weren’t for me calling him sneak and dratted villain, and trying to hurt him.”

“I don’t think it was all your fault,” Frodo objected, “but I think you’ve hit near the truth, such as it is.” He scratched down some notes and paused, quill hovering in the air. “Don’t stop there, Sam. What happened next?”

So Sam talked for the next hour, going straight through the noisome airs of the tunnel and the webs blowing in the wind and the great dark eyes of Shelob, sometimes plunging forward in a torrent of words, sometimes wavering as he struggled to pin down a storm of emotion into a single phrase. “I sang, er, a bit of Elvish, I reckon, though I can’t recall why or how, seeing as I don’t know a word of it. And the Lady’s glass got brighter and brighter, till it lit up all the cleft, and Shelob staggered back into her hole. Then I got to you.” He realized that his voice was getting softer and softer until it trailed off completely. Frodo set his quill down. “Thank you, Sam,” he said at long last. “I think that’ll do for now.”

Sam breathed in and felt himself coming back to Bag End. The birds were chirping outside, and he could see the clouds moving across the endless blue sky. “It’s about time I started on luncheon,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”


	2. Chapter 2

**2.** _But other potencies there are in Middle-earth, powers of night, and they are old and strong._

The rest of the day had went by unremarkably, and evening had cast its purple cloak over the Shire. Frodo looked up, lit a candle, and returned to his work, hardly noticing the change. As Sam had requested, he had cleaned every dish set before him, but still he felt empty inside, and the day was passing away.

“Mr. Frodo?” Blinking, Frodo turned at the sound of his name. It was Sam again, with supper. He set the steaming plate of lettuce and fish, excellently cooked as usual, upon the table. Frodo glanced at it briefly, resigned.

 “Rosie and I are going for a walk around the square,” Sam was saying. “We’ll be home by nine o’clock, I reckon.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” Frodo said distantly. He heard a voice, and soft footsteps fading off into blank silence. Tucking an unruly curl behind his ear, he picked up his quill and continued, taking a reluctant bite every now and then. He was nearly to the end of this part. “And one day I may reward you, I or those that remember me,” he said aloud. Yes, that sounded fine. It was a fair approximation of what he remembered saying to Gollum before going into the tunnel. And with that memory he shuddered slightly, and felt old wounds touch him again.

Frodo dotted his vowels and curved his bows. It was done. Carefully he lifted the leaves of Bilbo’s old journal and flipped to the beginning of the chapter. “The Stairs of Cirith Ungol,” he wrote. It was a simple title, as he was accustomed to. He stretched and stood up. For months Frodo had been writing his memoirs, and only now was he approaching the end of the Tale. Sam had predicted things well, a year and more ago. They were characters in a story now, put into words, so that one day people would gather round and listen as every step of their road fell into place, from the Barrow-downs to Rivendell to Fangorn and Edoras and the Mountain of Fire. The mere thought still astounded him.

Wandering out of the study, Frodo went to the kitchen and hesitated, looking around at the abundance of food neatly stored. It was quite true that he wasn’t eating nearly enough. The sleeve of his shirt was hanging limply from his thin arm, and had been for a while. “I suppose Sam is right, as usual,” he murmured, but even his voice sounded strange to his ears. Slowly he reached up and felt for the little white gem that hung about his neck. _When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you, this will bring you aid._ The star-shaped jewel had a clear sheen that sparkled even in the gloom, and the touch of it brought him some small measure of peace. Yet lying within, not quite hidden, was a desperate longing for the white shores and clear skies of another land, a land in which peace was everlasting.

Frodo let go of the silver chain. His time would come. There were still things to see and to do in Middle-earth before the Three Rings departed over Sea. And it was sad to think of the inevitable partings with his good friends, sundered from him by mile upon mile of rolling water. No, the Age of Men had not yet begun, and Frodo was not ready to leave. In any case, the book still needed finishing. He left the kitchen without eating so much as a morsel.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.** _Indeed, if you will believe it, he’s now one of the most famous people in all the lands, and they are making songs about his deeds from here to the Sea and beyond the Great River._

The next morning Sam woke up feeling refreshed. He and Rosie had had a fine evening walking about under the stars, and it seemed that Hobbiton was shaping up nicely after the events of last autumn. Today, judging by the dark skies outside, they’d be having some showers. Sam rolled over in his bed to find Rosie already awake. “Good morning,” he said, yawning as he spoke.

“You too, sleepy,” she said, poking him playfully. “Come on, it’s getting late. We ought to be making breakfast.”

They got dressed. “Did you have any dreams, Rosie?” he asked.

“I dreamed that I was at the Green Dragon and suddenly a barrel of potatoes fell on me and I ate them,” she replied with a shrug. “ _My_ dreams don’t mean much. What about you?”

Sam thought a while. “Well, I can’t say I know how to explain it, really. I saw a tall tower, and water that went on and on right towards the setting sun. It was the Sea, I think. Then I saw an old hobbit getting on a ship, and it sailed away.”

Rosie’s eyebrows furrowed. “Did you know the hobbit?”

“It wasn’t Mr. Bilbo, that’s for sure. The hair was too light. I can’t remember anything else.”

“That’s odd, for sure,” Rosie remarked. They began on the meal, and Sam soon forgot the strange dream. As they were cutting the vegetables, it began to rain. “I suppose I won’t get to trim the lower hedge today.” Sam looked glumly out the window. Then he brightened a little. “At least I’ll have some more time to talk to Mr. Frodo. Anyway we could use a little more rain this time of year, don’t you think?”

“Yes, that’s so,” Rosie replied quietly, looking down at her neatly chopped carrots. “Go and talk to him, then, after .”

 

Several hours later, Sam had at long last finished his tale as far as getting to the door of the Orc-tower. “I passed out then, I reckon, and it was just luck that I wasn’t found,” he said ruefully, trying to remember why he had acted so rashly. “That’s all.”

Frodo scribbled down some lines and laid his sheaf of notes on the desk. “That’ll be enough for a whole chapter, if the others are anything to go by.” He read over the paragraphs. “I think it’s only fair that you come up with a title for it, since all of it was from you.”

“Me?” Sam blinked. “I dunno if I could, Mr. Frodo. I mean, I don’t have your skill with words and poetry and such.”

“Oh, come. Surely you have some ideas.”

Sam rubbed his chin. “All this part - between Shelob and the Tower, I mean - all of it was my choices. What I decided on, whether right or wrong. So I suppose _choices_ ought to be in it.” He trailed off, unsure how to continue.

Frodo nodded thoughtfully and opened Bilbo’s red journal to the next empty page. “The Choices of Master Samwise,” he wrote in large letters. Sam blushed. “It makes me look, well, bigger than I am, I’d say," he said, scratching his head. "My right name seems so grand that way, all in red and black on the top of a page. And I wouldn’t call myself a master, begging your pardon, sir.”

Frodo smiled slightly, and his hand fingered a gem around his neck that Sam could not quite see, hidden as it was beneath his shirt. “I would.”

 

Sam spent the rest of the afternoon talking with Frodo, even though he'd meant to have tea with his wife. When at last he slipped into bed, he found Rosie there, lying awake. "I'm sorry it's so late," he said. "Time just gets away from me sometimes, I suppose."

Rosie patted his arm, but already her eyes were closing. "It's forgiven," she said. "But you're usually so punctual..." The last syllable was still on her lips when she drifted off. 

Sam frowned, trying to decipher the meaning behind those words, but it lay beyond his comprehension. "Good night," he whispered, and lay down. It was a long time before they spoke of that again.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.** _And he went on, and there was yellow light, and fire within, and the evening meal was ready, and he was expected._

**April 30, 1422.** Sam had known, in the back of his mind, that Frodo would be leaving soon. For two years he had helplessly watched his master fade into near nothingness back home in the Shire, while the other Travellers’ fame blossomed. Often he saw Frodo turn westward, staring out over the peaceful hills and valleys, as if looking past them to what lay beyond. And there was that dream, the one about the Sea. Yes, he had known for a while. But when the time came, it had been a blow and a shock beyond his reckoning.

Merry and Pippin were visiting today, to talk about old times, and to reminisce. “And I should like to have a look at your new Party Tree, the _mallorn_ ,” Merry had commented earlier. “I’m sure it’s grown much since our last meeting.” Their last meeting had been the same week as Frodo’s departure.

Sam realized that he was staring moodily out the window again. It was no good to run a family that way, he reminded himself; as the Gaffer liked to say, one couldn’t feed hobbits with memories. He tore his eyes away and found Rosie standing there, holding little Elanor. “Come now, what’s the matter?” she asked, putting their child into his arms. “Are you thinking about Frodo again?”

“I can’t seem to put the thought of him away, as it were,” he admitted. “It’s been so long, and I’m still here, waiting, if that’s the word.” He ran his fingers through Elanor’s fair curls, and she gave him a gap-toothed smile. “I know I’m not there for you and Elanor like I ought to be. _You cannot always be torn in two_ , he said before he left, but I still am.”

Rosie’s eyes softened. “It’s alright. If I’d lost my Nibs, I’d be broken too.” She gave him a small, sad smile. “I was so jealous of Frodo, before.”

“Jealous? What for?”

“You were always spending time with him, and talking to him, and writing his book with him. And you weren’t with me often, except at night. It was -” she ducked her head, self-conscious “- it was a little lonely, if that's the word.”

Sam immediately felt a pang of guilt. “You ought to’ve told me. If I’d known, I would’ve…would’ve done something.”

“No,” Rosie interrupted. “It wouldn’t have been right. Seeing as we both knew, deep down, he was going away someday. He’s gone now, and that’s all the words you’ll ever speak to him. I know you love me, and I knew it then, too. You just needed time.”

Gently she led him back to the sitting-room. It was the same one where Bilbo had stumbled into adventure; the same one where Frodo had learned of the One Ring. All the furniture was still sitting there much as it always had, and the fire still crackled in the fireplace with the same warm cheer. Those days were over, gone into the abyss of forgotten years. The Fourth Age was about to begin, Strider had told him back at Minas Tirith, and all the story and song of the Elder Days were coming to a close. So was the Red Book, for that matter. Sam had spent a great deal of time filling up the last remaining leaves with his account of the final years, though his handwriting, to his eyes, looked messy and unvarnished beside that of his master. (Frodo, and Bilbo before him, had spent many hours attempting to improve Sam’s letters, to no avail.) “The Scouring of the Shire” had been finished only a few weeks ago. Now there was little that remained.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.** _His trees began to sprout and grow, as if time was in a hurry and wished to make one year do for twenty._

“Sam, you’re a marvel!” Merry exclaimed, as had many others who looked upon the Party Tree. “How on earth do you do it?”

Sam blushed mightily. “I don’t do much at all, really. It grows on its own for the most part.”

“It’s elf-magic,” Pippin insisted, puffing on the silver-bound pipe that Bilbo had given him. “I’m sure of it. They put their magic in it from the Sea and _poof!_ it grows big and tall.”

Merry snorted. “Take that pipe away, Sam! I think old Pip’s had a bit too much leaf, wouldn’t you say?”

It was spring in 1422, and all things in the Shire were growing. The three remaining Travellers were sitting on a bench outside Bag End, swinging their legs and smoking and admiring the _mallorn._ By all accounts they were enjoying themselves, but there was a pain beneath that would take long to heal.

“D’you remember when you told Mr. Frodo about our conspiracy?” Sam asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Merry with a note of glee. “The look on his face was priceless. Say, did he put that into his book?”

“That’s what I want to know,” Pippin chimed in. “If our descendants don’t hear about that, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“Well, why don’t we get the book and find out?” Sam got up and headed inside. A few minutes later he returned with the Red Book under his arm and more pipe-weed, which the younger hobbits cheerfully accepted. The journal’s leaves were thin and it took much care to turn them, so it was a while before they found what they were looking for. “A Conspiracy Unmasked,” Pippin read. “I like the sound of that! Now let’s see…Oh, look, I said this part. _Dear old Frodo! Did you really think you had thrown dust in all our eyes? You have not been nearly careful or clever enough for that!_ Seems about right, though as I recall I didn’t sound half as pompous.”

“I’m sure ‘dear old Frodo’ has a much better memory than you,” Merry replied, unable to hold back a chuckle. Sam attempted to retain some form of maturity by not joining in, but was not entirely successful.

Finally the laughter ceased, and the old wounds opened again. “I miss the old fellow,” Pippin said very quietly, as the breeze gently stirred the pages. “When I was younger I’d go on walks with him, and we’d talk about birds and trees - and Elves, but I was too scared of them to ask questions.”

Merry wiped his eyes clumsily. “And after it all, he kept coming up to me when I was trying to eat my supper and enjoy the view in the City, and saying things like ‘Well, do you remember that part clearly, or are you just guessing?’ He said that often, and I wondered why he was in a such a rush to finish the book. ‘You’ve got the rest of your life to write this,’ I told him, and he didn’t answer.”

They fell silent. _The lower hedge needs trimming again_ , Sam thought dimly. A golden petal from the tree wafted by and landed on the book. Somehow the wind had blown the pages to the very back, to the blank space that Sam had still not yet filled in. Pippin blinked and touched the book.

“You should finish it,” he said. “You and Frodo only got up to the Scouring, and that was years ago. The Story isn’t done yet. After all it doesn’t mention your Elanor, or the _mallorn_ , for that matter, or the - the Havens. You can’t stop it where it is.”

“I know.” Sam sighed. “I’ll get around to it, sometime. There’s no rush.”

“Make it sooner,” Merry urged, “not later. We want to read the whole thing, right, Pip?”

“Right!” Pippin said, a little energy returning to his voice. “Come on, let’s see what’s in the pantry.”


	6. Chapter 6

**6.** _And that will keep you as busy and as happy as anyone can be, as long as your part in the Story goes on._

“…but its rider did not see them, lying covered in their elven-cloaks, too crushed for the moment, and too afraid to move.” Sam shut the book. “Alright, that’s enough for today. It’s getting dark. The moon’s out, see?”

“Dad!” Elanor cried. “But you stopped at the best part! I want to know if the Riders won! And what happened to Merry and Pippin? Did they escape from the Orcs?”

“I should hope they escaped, darling,” Sam replied. “Pippin was just here last month for your birthday, remember?”

“But - but Master Peregrin’s going to be the Took one day. _The_ Took! They can’t be the same one, can they?”

“Oh, you’ll see tomorrow evening,” Sam said. “C’mon now, Mum’s left bedtime snacks for you. Unless you want to sleep hungry - ”

“That I don’t!” Elanor said indignantly and pranced off to the kitchen, her fair curls bouncing along behind her. Sam watched her go, shaking his head fondly. He had read nearly half of the Red Book, and every time he stopped, she called it the best part. Unless, of course, her dad was in it, in which case it was “the best _best_ part,” naturally.

“She’s growing big.” Rosie had come up unexpectedly behind him. “And pretty, too, though that doesn’t need pointing out.”

Sam nodded. “How is Frodo-lad coming along?”

“He doesn’t want me to help him around anymore. ‘I do it!’ he says, at least ten times a day by my reckoning. I have to follow him around, and that’s not easy.” Rosie reached up and tousled Sam’s curls affectionately. “You know, he doesn’t take after our old Frodo much, does he? All sandy hair and hazel eyes, like his father.”

“Though I’m sure he’ll be just the same when he comes of age, at least where it counts. Clever and stout-hearted, that’s what.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Rosie smiled, running a hand over the child growing in her belly. “This one’ll be here soon,” she said. “What should we name her? If it’s a her, I mean.”

Sam thought back to a conversation he had had many years ago. _Well, Sam, what’s wrong with the old customs?_ came a voice out of the past. _Choose a flower name like Rose. Half the maidchildren in the Shire are called by such names, and what could be better?_

“Rose,” he said at last, wrapping his wife up in a hug. “I think that’ll do.”

 

That night, Sam dreamed of the old hobbit again, sailing into the west. _Though you too were a Ring-bearer, if only for a while. Your time may come._ It would. One day, it would. But for now, there was a home, and a family, and a book waiting to be read.


	7. Chapter 7

**7.** _…and beyond, a swift sunrise._

Silver bark, long leaves. Golden flowers that blossomed in April. It had been many years since he’d seen it last, but Frodo could picture the _mallorn_ clear as could be. It had been a sapling then, with slender branches and small leaves, but now it was a graceful beauty, towering over the Hill just as old Bilbo’s had done. Hobbit-children, far too many to count, ran around its roots, laughing and singing, while their father sat by his well-tended garden and looked on with pride. A book with red covers, worn and faded perhaps, but as full of life as ever it had been, was lying at his lap, open to the last chapter. “The Grey Havens,” it read, written not in Frodo’s own practiced book-hand but in wobbly, slightly off-kilter letters. He’d tried for ages to correct that, but evidently the lessons had never stuck. _I’m not surprised_ , Frodo thought contentedly. _He’s always been a busy soul._


End file.
